We came here, to Helm's Deep, under the command of King Theoden. I watch from the battlement as the army of Saruman's servants draws ever nearer. Their ironclad feet pound the ground in a constant rhythm, striking fear into my heart. I am not the only one, of that I am sure. The enemies draw even closer now; their torches are no longer specks of light on the horizon and the Uruk-Hai themselves are no longer just the blobs supporting those torches. My mouth goes dry at the sight of their army. It is vast, and their numbers are larger than ours, despite the fact that our army perhaps grew twice its size when the Elves came. For that, I am grateful. Lord Aragorn begins to pace up and down the rows of Elves and Men, shouting as he does so.

"A Eruchîn, ú-dano I faelas a hyn an uben tanatha le faelas!"

I can't understand what he's saying, and because of that, I'm assuming he spoke in the tongue of the Elves. By now, it has begun raining, and the pitter-patter of the droplets of water hitting the metal armor fills the former silence. My heart begins pounding, because the Uruk army is now so close that I can see clearly the ugly faces of some of them.

And then, they stop. One climbs up onto a rock that's protruding, and draws his sword, raising it into the air and pointing it towards our army. The Uruk lets out a horrific cry, and on impulse, I glance up at the Elf standing next to me. He glances down at the same moment, and our eyes lock. I'm surprised to see the same fear in his clear blue orbs; the same fear that is probably in my own murky hazel ones. My gaze is torn away from the Elf's eyes as a great swell of noise fills me ears. Some Uruks are banging their armor with their fists, while others are pounding the slightly soggy ground with the blunt end of their spear sticks. I can feel a knot steadily growing larger somewhere in the pit of my stomach.

Suddenly the whistle of an arrow being released interrupts the roaring of the Uruk-Hai. Silences falls as everybody watches one of the front line Uruks fall to the ground, an arrow firmly lodged in his neck.

"Dartho!"

Aragorn shouts, and I'm guessing this means 'hold' in the Elvish tongue. If I am correct, then it is far too late. The roaring of the Uruks starts again, only much more fierce this time. I pull out the dull, rusty sword that was given to me in the armory. Arrows start to fly through the air, seemingly thickening the already dark sky. I gasp in horror as the Elf next to me collapses, an arrow protruding from his chest.

So it begins.